


Stranger Things

by jedusaur



Category: Bandom
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he has to do is go to the back room of a shitty gay club, the kind that's dim because the lights are buried under years of grime. Mood lighting, if guilt and urgency are moods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranger Things

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/)**dear_monday** for the beta, and to all the people who let me not!fic this at them over AIM or e-mail and then commanded me to write it for real.

Sometimes--not when life is going well and he can distract himself, just when he's feeling fragile enough to set aside words like "should" for a little while--Ryan likes to get fucked by people he will never know beyond the feel of their cocks inside him.

It's not hard to find them, as long as he doesn't worry too much about safety or dignity. It's almost shamefully easy, in fact. All he has to do is go to the back room of a shitty gay club, the kind that's dim because the lights are buried under years of grime. Mood lighting, if guilt and urgency are moods. He just covers his eyes with a cloth, gets on his knees, opens his mouth, and waits. Someone always gets the right idea soon enough.

It's dangerous, he knows. He's risking all kinds of STDs. He could get choked by someone thrusting too hard and caring too little. He could get sick. He could get hurt. He could get caught. Anyone could fuck him, anyone at all.

That's the point.

The scarf he uses as a blindfold isn't one of the ones he wears normally. It's black, with an electric blue pattern, and it's just for this. Two of the corners are wrinkled from past knots, from past nights. Ryan never bothers to smooth them out. He likes the reminder, on the days when he can resist, that there are days he can't.

Today is one of the days he can't.

The bar is dirty and seedy and not well-marked. People don't come here because of the place's street appeal. They know it's here because someone told them what they could get here, and they come here because that's what they want. Casual sex, no condoms attached. A brief encounter; a blowjob or a handjob, a fuck if they feel like lingering. No kissing. No talking. No names.

Ryan takes the scarf out of his pocket as he slips through the door, no questions asked. Places like this one don't have bouncers. Sometimes they have a big beefy guy hanging around to throw out the cokeheads when they get too rowdy, but they rarely check IDs and they never charge a cover. The bartenders make evil eyes at older, uglier guys who show up to hook up without buying drinks, but they don't mind Ryan. Kids like Ryan are the draw. He's better for business than their watery beer, by far.

He heads to the back room. He's never been here before, not this specific here, but he's been to this general here, and the room he wants is going to be in the back. It's always half-heartedly blocked off with a curtain or a privacy screen, but there's never a door that closes, never anything that says "no." There isn't a whole lot of "no" in places like this.

The scarf is thick enough to block out his vision entirely when he rolls it up. He presses it against his eyes and tilts his head forward to fasten it at the back of his head, the fabric slipping comfortably into its knot. His body knows like Pavlov's dog what's coming next, what that pressure encircling his head means. His cock has been hard since he decided he would give in tonight, but now it starts to ache.

He backs up to the wall, so the first anonymous stranger will have something to fuck his head against, and sinks to his knees.

The floor is as dirty as they all are, gritty and littered with lumps of debris. Ryan's knees will stick when he stands up in a few hours, unless someone gets creative and pulls him up sooner to find out whether he'll let them fuck his ass.

He will. He lets them do anything. These nights are about being used, being had, being passed around.

He licks his lips a little, tucks his hands behind his back and juts out his hips. He knows his cock is bulging and obvious in his tight jeans. This part, the waiting, is the best and the worst. The anticipation kills him, because he knows what's coming, he knows what he's going to get, but he doesn't know when. Sometimes they catch on right away, sometimes it takes a while for someone to approach. Ryan imagines the sensation of an unfamiliar cock in his mouth, rammed down his throat too fast for him even to tell whether it's circumcised, and bites his lip briefly before letting his mouth fall wide open.

It doesn't take too long this time. Less than two minutes have passed when footsteps come up to him and a deep voice asks, "Free?"

Ryan nods, tilting his face up. The guy unzips and pushes in. He's clearly trying to be gentle. Ryan tries not to be too disappointed. There will be more guys tonight, and most of them will know how to take what they're offered. He sucks the guy off quickly, ruthlessly, because he's good at making orgasms happen when he wants them to.

When he's done, Ryan says, "Hand me over to someone else, will you? Tell them to pass me around."

He doesn't usually have to talk to more than one of them. The kind of guy who likes to fuck random barely-legal throats is usually the kind of guy who's all too happy to spread the word about the eager slut with no gag reflex.

The next one is less careful, and the one after that enjoys making him choke. Ryan's head starts to pound, and he loses track after the fourth one. They all blend together, cock after cock, their owners irrelevant. This, this is why he does it, this feeling of simultaneous connection and total separation, this gradual break between Ryan as a person and Ryan as a tight wet hole.

Ryan never comes with the blindfold on. He saves it for later. The memories are better for that, when he's back in himself and he can enjoy it properly.

He's almost done--he's thinking two or three more, maybe--when he hears a nauseatingly familiar voice and freezes.

_"Ryan?"_

Rewind, Ryan thinks, please world, rewind and everything will be different and he'll never see. The possibility of getting caught gives him a thrill, but it's a thrill because he's actually afraid of getting caught, not because he wants it. He doesn't want Spencer to be here, yanking away whoever's cock was in his mouth, grabbing his arm and pulling off the blindfold and hurling reality at his face.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

Ryan doesn't answer. He hasn't come out of it yet. His throat isn't for talking right now.

Spencer sees his face, the way it shuts down, and Ryan knows he can tell this conversation isn't happening here. This conversation isn't happening at all, if Ryan can help it, but it's definitely not happening within earshot of eight guys he's just blown.

Spencer drags him out of the building and into his car. Ryan clutches his scarf, wondering if he would survive a dive out the window onto the shoulder of the highway. He could hitchhike to Montana and get a job on a ranch and wear a cowboy hat all the time and never speak to anyone he knows ever again.

Spencer parks in his driveway, but doesn't get out of the car. "Why don't we start with what the hell you were thinking and go from there?" he says tightly. He doesn't look at Ryan.

"That I wanted to get laid," says Ryan.

He knows there's a rant coming, he can see it build in the skin reddening from Spencer's collarbone to his neck to his face and bursting out of his lips: "Without condoms? Wearing a blindfold? In a skeevy bar in a nasty part of town with _how_ many guys? Jesus, Ryan, I can't even list all the stupid things you were doing! I took health class with you, okay, I watched you roll the fucking rubber onto the fucking banana, and I know for a fact that passing that class meant taking a multiple-choice test proving that you know not to do what you just fucking did. Were you fucking copying off me?"

He's looking at Ryan now, pinning him with the glare he uses when he's not fucking around. Ryan shrinks down in his seat. He doesn't know how to explain that he _needs_ it, that sometimes the stretch of his lips around a stranger's cock is too tantalizing to resist, the way some people can't resist the stretch of their lips around a beer bottle after a hard day. He doesn't know how to put it into words.

Spencer sighs. "Come on," he says, unbuckling. "Your mouth is bleeding. Let's clean you up and get you some water."

Ryan follows him inside and lets him fuss, because there's no other way he can think of to make Spencer think he's helping. If something is wrong, Spencer needs to feel like he's helping. Wiping away the blood on Ryan's face will keep him busy, keep him doing something other than demanding answers.

It's coming, though, so Ryan spends his shower thinking about what to say, whether he can say anything at all without keeling over with shame. Spencer's right, of course. Ryan knows he shouldn't be doing this, has known that since long before the first time he gave in. He doesn't do this because it's okay. He does it because he can't stop himself.

He gets out of the water and dries himself off, puts on a pair of pajama pants and curls up in Spencer's bed, facing the wall. Spencer comes in and sits down on the edge of the mattress. Before he can say anything, Ryan says, "I know. I'm sorry. I don't have a deathwish, I'm not trying to fuck myself over. I just... need it."

Spencer is silent for a long moment, then he says, "What is it? What do you need? Is it the lack of protection, or being shared, or what?"

It's both of those, a little, but they're not why he can't stay away. They're just part of it, part of the bigger experience, that random connection and loss of self. Ryan tries to figure out how to say it. "Anonymity," he concludes finally. "I need to be fucked without knowing who's fucking me."

Spencer lies down behind him, resting an arm on his waist. "You have to stop," he says quietly. "Promise me. Please."

Ryan can hear the concern in his voice. Looking back, without the blood pounding in his ears, he can hear the concern in everything Spencer has said since he found him in the club. Ryan can be reckless without regard for himself, but he can't do this to Spencer.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

***

Ryan is all right for a while. It's not like he does it every Friday. He's gotten good at waiting, at putting it off longer and longer until he can't take it anymore. But that's when he has something to put off. Now, he has nothing to look forward to. He's fine with delayed gratification, but denied gratification sucks.

He's not going to break a promise to Spencer. He just isn't. And that means the temptation is no longer waiting for him just where he can barely knock it with his fingertips if he jumps. It's all the way out of reach.

Without his next tumble from the wagon to anticipate, Ryan gets more and more restless. He keeps the blue and black scarf in his pocket, fingering it, thinking about the last time. The last time ever, and that thought just takes everything out of him.

Spencer notices, of course. Spencer notices things even when Ryan is trying to be subtle, and he's not.

Finally, Spencer sits down on the couch next to Ryan and says, "You could still have anonymous sex. Seeing someone's face and checking that they're wearing a condom doesn't mean knowing who they are. It's still kind of stupid, but it's not intervention-level stupid. I wouldn't try to stop you."

Ryan shakes his head. "That wouldn't... it's not what I need. It has to be done to me. I have to believe it could be anyone."

Spencer rests his forehead on his fist, sighing deeply, cheeks puffing out. "Okay," he says.

"Okay, what?" That sounded like a concession, like he's going to let Ryan do what he wants. And yeah, Ryan wants it, but it's also kind of nice knowing that Spencer cares about him enough not to let him have it.

"Okay, I'll make it happen," says Spencer. Ryan stares, and he elaborates, "I'll find guys to fuck you. I'll vet them and make sure they wear condoms and I won't let them hurt you. You'll never see their faces."

Ryan's stomach swoops. "Are you serious?"

Spencer rests a hand on Ryan's knee, and Ryan is hard because of his words, because of what Spencer is going to give him, not because of the hand. "It's okay to need things, Ryan," he says softly. "You just have to be smart about getting them. Sometimes you have to ask for help."

Ryan leans his head on Spencer's shoulder and closes his eyes. "Thanks," he says. He can feel the pulse in Spencer's neck against his temple, rhythmic and steady.

"Anytime," says Spencer, and it means a lot more than it would from anyone else.

***

It's astonishing how much better the anticipation is without the crushing weight of guilt on top of it. Something's coming, something soon, and it's going to be good. Spencer knows how to plan shit so it goes down the way he wants, and he knows Ryan. He's going to make it good.

Ryan keeps the scarf in his pocket, ready when he needs it. The day he reaches for it and finds his pocket empty, he knows it's going to happen.

He's in his kitchen when Spencer comes up behind him and loops the scarf around his eyes. "Are you ready?" he murmurs.

Ryan thought he was prepared for this, but Spencer ties the scarf tighter than Ryan does, and the difference overwhelms him. It's secure, it's not moving anywhere, and it pinches just a little. Ryan doesn't know what's in store for him.

"Yes," he says. He lets all the air out of his lungs and sucks in some more. "Fuck, yes."

Spencer lays a hand on his back and pushes him forward, bending him over the counter. "Your safeword is 'sailboat'," he says. "Say it."

"Sailboat," says Ryan, and knows he won't have to say it again.

Spencer sticks some foam earplugs in Ryan's ears, the fancy kind that really work, and the ambient noise of the room gives way to the rapid beating of his heart as they expand. Ryan's world becomes nothing but darkness and silence and excitement.

Someone tugs down his pants, exposing his ass to the air. He's pretty sure it's still Spencer, there hasn't been time to bring anyone else into the house, but he's not _sure_ , and that sends a little shiver through his body. The hand takes Ryan's wrist and guides it back to his ass, drips some lube on his fingers and lets go. Ryan fingers himself, wondering if whoever is going to fuck him will finger him too, or if this is all he'll get before someone's cock slams into him.

He doesn't need much loosening up before he's ready to be fucked. When he's stretched out enough for any reasonably-sized cock, he withdraws his hand and waits.

And waits.

He doesn't know exactly how long he stands there, bent forward. It's at least five minutes, probably ten, before he finally feels someone behind him, sliding into his ass with a condom-covered cock. It's not rough, but it's not gentle either, fucking him firm and quick.

Ryan has been wondering if Spencer was just going to do it himself. It would be the easiest way for him to handle the situation. Ryan has no idea how he could have brought this up to someone else. _Hey, dude, come on over tomorrow and fuck Ryan for me? Personal favor, I'll owe you one._ Ryan wouldn't blame him for not wanting to deal with that. And maybe, just maybe, Ryan wouldn't have minded being fucked by Spencer.

But this is not Spencer. When the guy grabs Ryan's hips to pull him back further onto his cock, the grip is different. Which means it could be anyone. Probably someone Ryan knows, if he's close enough to Spencer for this kind of request. All Ryan can feel is hands and cock, and his hips are banging into the counter hard enough that he's sure they'll bruise, and it's fucking good.

The guy doesn't take too long to finish. Ryan feels a pang of disappointment that it's over so soon, but he's not going to complain. He waits for Spencer to see the guy out, to come back and take off the blindfold and earplugs. He doesn't doubt for a second that Spencer has been there the whole time, making sure he's okay.

Somehow, it doesn't dampen the experience at all.

Someone comes up behind him, taking the place of the last guy, but he's not taking off the blindfold. He's erect, and oh, it's not over yet. He presses up against Ryan and into him, fucking him, faster and more desperate than the first guy. Ryan's ass is getting sore, and his stomach hurts from being shoved into the edge of the counter, and his cock hurts from being so hard.

The second guy finishes even more quickly, like maybe he was already halfway there, like maybe he was watching. He pulls out and leaves Ryan alone again. Ryan wonders how many other people are there, how many eyes are on him right now, seeing his slick reddened ass.

He pushes his hips forward against the counter. His pants aren't even down in front, they're just pulled down over his ass, so his cock is still trapped in tight fabric. He presses forward, rubbing against the counter, thinking about people watching him, seeing his ass rocking back and forth, bare and used, and he creams his fucking pants. It's the first time he's ever come while wearing the blindfold.

He waits, because Spencer hasn't told him to move. He waits a long time, at least another ten minutes, until he feels someone behind him again. He can't process who it might be, can't focus on any details about the person except that there's another cock sliding into him. He feels the separation, that beautiful disconnect, and now he's just here to be fucked. He's too overloaded with sensation to do anything but take it.

It lasts a long time, or at least it feels like it does. Finally, the guy pushes all the way into Ryan's ass and shudders, then lets out a shaky breath against the back of Ryan's neck and pulls out. As he does, his hand brushes against Ryan's hip. The middle fingernail is longer than the others.

Ryan drops all his weight onto his elbows on the counter and waits. Soon, Spencer is there, untying the blindfold, taking out the earplugs, gently pulling up his pants. Ryan turns to thank him, and gets through about half a syllable before he's collapsing in Spencer's arms.

Spencer holds him tightly, rubbing his back, keeping him upright.

***

Ryan is playing Super Mario with his band when he sees it.

He drops his controller. "Jon," he says, staring at Jon's hand. "Your... holy shit. It was you."

Jon looks guilty. "Um, what was me?"

"Your fingernail." Ryan whips his head around to look at Brendon, who is pretending to focus very hard on the pause screen, and at Spencer, who's trying not to smile. "It was you. The three of you fucked me."

Of course. Spencer always involves the rest of them in his constant schedules and lists and rules. Of course he would turn to them if he happened to need the use of a cock or two for a day. It only makes sense. Ryan draws in on himself, trying not to think of what they know about him, what they'll always know about him now.

"Well," says Jon, "no. The two of us. I went again after Brendon." Brendon snickers, and Jon glares. "Dude, it was really hot!"

Just the two of them. Not Spencer. Ryan fights the disappointment rising up in him. He didn't really think Spencer would do it, but he can't help wondering if it was because he didn't want to. Ryan doesn't need everyone to want his jokes or his music, but when they don't want his ass, he takes it personally.

He slips off to the kitchen to get a soda, and to escape the giggles of his gangbanging band. He stops halfway to the refrigerator and looks at the counter, hugging himself, remembering the sensations on his skin and what it felt like to be unsure.

Spencer comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Ryan's waist and resting his chin on Ryan's shoulder. "You wanted not to know who was fucking you, didn't you?" he says in a low voice, right into Ryan's ear.

Ryan lets his eyes fall shut and nods, feeling the scratch of Spencer's scruffy jaw against his cheek. Everything always feels sharper when he's not looking at it.

"Now you'll never know for sure," whispers Spencer. "Because it always could be me."


End file.
